'Mickey, what's wrong with you?' Sam Nixon snapped at him.

He started, realising that he'd been staring into space instead of looking at the case notes. 'Nothing, ma'am.' The words, unmeant and false came as easy to him as telling the truth; being with Jack had stopped him lying most of the time but the old instinct was still there, his first line of defence.

'Pay attention then. If you've been bloody stupid enough to get yourself a hangover, go deal with it somewhere else.'

'Sorry.' Trying to show willing, he picked up a handful of the sheets at random and flicked through them; realised when he reached the end that he couldn't remember any details save for what Martin Delaney looked like. He's guilty. And he scares me shitless, just looking at him. God, he does.

'So, what'd you think about Rachel Heath?'

'Who?'

'The first woman who was attacked. The prostitute. Did you actually read any of that?'

'Yeah. Yeah, course I did.' That wasn't quite a lie that he told her; he'd read it, but it hadn't made any kind of sense to him.

'Are you alright?' The edge had gone from Nixon's voice and that was worse than the accusation had been. He knew how to cope with suspicion and anger; sympathy from someone he hardly knew and disliked anyway was harder to bear.

'No, look…Someone I knew - was close to - died - funeral were yesterday. Ask J- DCI Meadows; he knows. I can cope; I'd rather be here than home.' Because I would have had to spend more time with Jack and he's so angry with me. Couldn't have been around him any more today. Not after that.

'You sure?'

'I can cope, honest. I can deal with it all, can deal with Delaney.' With you, him, everything but Jack believing what I said to him this morning. I didn't mean it, Jack, it was wrong, you know that. It wasn't me talking, it was... He hadn't had an excuse; he'd been sober, Jack hadn't been threatening him, but he hadn't been thinking, and the words had come out and he thought Jack had believed it.

'Alright. Look, leave this lot to Romani or someone; it's no good if you can't think straight for it. Ken's doing a load of transcribing work for the same case at the moment, see if he needs a hand with that.'

'Ma'am.' Ken gave him a curious look as he gathered up some of the tapes and slunk back to his corner of the office, but none of them said anything. Mickey couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't really here; surely none of them would ignore him in this way if he were there? But Jack didn't ignore you, and see where that got him; maybe he told the rest of them.

'You going to eat tonight, Mick?'

'Don't fink so.'

'You ought to.'

'Leave it out, Jack.'

'No.'

He'd given in eventually; he'd never succeeded in outlasting the DCI about anything that the older man had decided was important, and he didn't really want to. So, feeling sick, he'd choked down a meal and then dragged himself off to bed even though he would have preferred to sit in front the TV, because Jack had assured him that he had to sleep, and he trusted the DCI more than he'd ever trusted another person in his life. And for the first time in his life, Mickey had turned down someone's offer to share a bed with him; Jack hadn't complained but simply gone into the other room. All that, and it had been alright, even if he hadn't been able to sleep.

'Morning, Mick. How are you?'

He hadn't been able to reply; he opened his mouth to answer and found Jack kissing him. Mickey supposed that the way he responded had been an answer in itself; that the next twenty minutes or so had given the DCI a true insight into his feelings. He'd clung to the older man as if he were dying. Then the conversation had switched from the physical to verbal, then from pleasant to threatening, although Mickey had known, even then, that the DCI would never actually try to intimidate him. Maybe it had been worse because Meadows hadn't realised what he was doing.

'Mickey, look, when you were living with your parents...after, or anything, did you ever report Ray?'

'I don't wanna talk 'bout that.'

'Listen, it's not too late if you wanted to. I saw him yesterday, could support you on what he's like. Did anyone else know what he used to do? Friends, teachers?'

Mickey thought he'd laughed, then. 'You don't get it, do you, Jack? Fings like that, you don't tell anyone about it...Anyway, you don't have bloody friends when your dad uses you as a punchbag; they're all scared case he tries it on with them, and the teachers - how ya meant to speak to them about anything? No-one cares, it's too common for 'em to care.'

'I care.' That had rung with truth.

'No, you fucking don't, else you wouldn't keep asking me about it. I don't like talking 'bout it.'

'It'd be better for you if you could talk to someone about it all; even report him.'

'No it bloody wouldn't! I'd have to see 'im again, then, an' that'd all just make it worse. Just wanna forget it.'

'Mickey...'

'Fuck off, Jack. Don't want to 'ear it. Don't want anything more to do with you if ya gonna keep bringing all this up. Anything.' He'd shouted that last back over his shoulder as he stormed out of the flat.

He could still hear it now, ringing in his mind. He hadn't meant it, maybe Meadows had known that, but he'd lost someone he loved, the last person in the world he had left to love, because of it. Maybe he'll leave; I couldn't blame him for that, because I drove him to it. I'll get home and he won't be there. The thought made him feel physically ill. Or was it the memory of yesterday, the funeral and meeting his father again, that made him feel that? Or Delaney's photograph that he'd had to stare at?

He wasn't sure about any of that; what he was sure on was that he was going to be ill. Panicking, he scrambled to his feet and bolted from the office, with Romani's voice following him.

'Mickey? Are you okay?'

No, yesterday, she was still around and this morning she's in a hole in the ground and I'm never going to see her again. And Jack...I'm not okay and I can't tell you that, can I?

Vaguely, he could hear some of them shouting but it was too distant to register. He retched, tried to get rid of the tightness in his stomach but it was impossible, and he crouched down by the sink and wept. It seemed like a betrayal that he hadn't cried since the funeral and he couldn't stop. But fear was mixed in with the grief, and it was that which made him feel so ill.

Meadows come crashing in minutes later, with Terry Perkins dogging his steps. 'Mickey? Mickey, what's wrong?'

'Leave it, guv. Leave me 'lone.' That was for Terry's benefit and Meadows appeared to recognise it as such; he waved the DC away with the comment that Mickey was probably hungover and that he could use it as a warning to the others.

'Okay, it's just us. What's wrong?'

'Nothing... I'm so sorry 'bout what I said earlier.' He reached up and spat into the sink, trying to clear his mouth. 'So sorry,' and he couldn't manage that above a whisper.

'Hey, don't worry. Don't you worry.' He crouched down by Mickey, rubbing the younger man's back just for the contact, a way of telling Mickey that he wasn't alone.

'Didn't mean none of it.' The words were run into each other as he tried to explain.

'Hey, hey, I know. It's okay. You just worried about that, because if you are, it doesn't matter, Mick. I know you didn't mean it.'

'I never fought I'd have t' see him again. Thought I were done wiv all that.'

'Ray?'

He nodded a mute assent, his hair brushing against Meadows' hand, and he leant into that contact.

'He won't bother you again - he doesn't know where you live; you hit him, didn't you? And me - he knows to leave you alone now.'

''E hit' - that word was mouthed rather than spoken - ' me more than that. And 'e scares me - I'm so fucking scared o' him, Jack.'

'Don't be. Not of anyone. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you, Mick. Never.'

'Delaney - ya look at them pictures of 'im, he's got the same eyes. Crazy...'

'It'll be alright.' He pulled Mickey to his feet, then into an embrace. 'I know you miss her, but...I'm still here, okay?'

Get him off the Delaney case, though, that'll be best...Guess he can work with Phil Hunter for a while, he's got the sense not to ask questions. If he'd been able to, he would have sent Mickey home and stayed with him, for however many weeks he needed to recover and sod everything else; instead, he settled for keeping an eye on Mickey for the rest of the day.

The work, Phil's brooding presence as they slogged through the notes and statements and the fact that he could hear Meadows pacing - that was enough, barely, to keep him going through the long day and the longer evening. But the fear of Delaney, who he'd never met, mingled with his fear of Ray and his aching grief and made him feel ill.